Coup D' Etat
by richard.fsea
Summary: My version of Keys to the Kingdom, where, instead of Arthur leaving everything to chance and refusing to use the Keys, we have George, who actually plans his next move carefully. Rated T for language. Please R&R.
1. Monday, 1

As beginnings go, this is not a particularly good one:

George's chest rose and fell erratically, his ribs visible through the hospital gown. His skin was drawn taut over his convulsing muscles, and a low moan issued from his lips. He had lost consciousness some five hours ago.

In the same ward, five other men and women went through the same sort of senseless agony, thrashing in their death throes. The personnel from WHO would not be visiting anytime soon; it had been accepted that convulsions were the final stage of the illness. They would have a better time of healing those who had only recently been infected.

George had been somewhere in the middle of the epidemic. It had already taken his family and his friends; his whole neighbourhood, now consigned to incinerators and graves. By rights he should have died sooner- cerebral palsy made him a very high-risk patient- but he was a fighter.

Not that that would make any difference, of course.

* * *

><p>As George convulsed, two men who had not been in the ward just seconds before conversed.<p>

"Normally my Times do these menial tasks, why do- oh, that's disgusting, Sneezer."

"Yes, Mister Monday. It'll die soon- best to get it over with before we have to waste more valuable time looking for more of them."

"I suppose you're right. Exhausting, this."

George shifted as Sneezer forced the Lesser Key into his gnarled fingers- then, all at once, he regained consciousness. His keening scream rose above the uniform groans. A few halls away, a number of healthcare personnel finished their tasks and hurried towards his ward. Sneezer turned back to his master. "Quickly, the other one! He'll die soon, milord."

"Why are there so few of them dying, eh? And just one? Something's not right here, Sneezer- something's not right, but I'm too tired to care- call this off. Kill him, Sneezer."

There was a short commotion that no one heard, and then-

"He's conscious."

"What on Earth-"

"Administer morphine, take tissue samples and calm him down, for Christ's sake! Inform the research division at once."

* * *

><p>George was sitting in his bed, staring dully at the window, when the clock registered the time as 12.00pm on Monday. He had not touched the strange metal spike or the book since regaining consciousness proper six days back, and didn't have the motivation to do so, anyhow. What else could he do? There was nothing more left to be done.<p>

Two weeks ago the epidemic had been something in a faraway land. His life was well-ordered, methodical- he had friends. Now all those friends were dead. Now his family, too, was dead. The city he saw outside his window was empty, and the hospitals were full.

There was a commotion some floors down. That was strange- the past few days had been peaceful, bereft of any distractions to take his mind off of the sudden destruction of what seemed like everything. George slipped out of bed with a grimace, and decided to take the wheelchair. The metal spike and the book were the only items in the ward with him. He couldn't remember where those came from, but they were at _his_ bedside, so they were his, weren't they?

George wheeled himself out of his ward one-handed, his left arm dangling uselessly, the spike clutched in his hand. Now the fire alarms were sounding. _What_ was going on? George turned to the emergency exit and rolled towards it as fast as he could. Nurses were pushing the ill out on stretchers. "What's going on?" George asked a nurse.

"There's a fire. Took out the whole bottom two floors. We're evacuating by helicopter."

In the absence of any civilian administration owing to the fact that most of the bureaucrats were dead, the Red Cross was running the city. Forcing his way out among the throngs of people crowding the hallways, George staggered out onto the roof, raising his hand to shield against the sunlight, and squeezed onto a helicopter alongside another nurse.

"You're George, right? The guy who survived?"

"Um, yes, I am." He'd been told that it was a genetic fluke- no such cure could be synthesized from any of the data they'd obtained from him. The nurse, for her part, said no more, allowing George to look out the window and brood further. But the small excitement had taken his mind off the grief, albeit slightly. That was good.

Wait. What was that?

There was… something… below the helicopter. George squinted, and blinked furiously a few times. It was impossible. There was no such thing. Oh, God.

There was a man flying towards him, a man with a flaming sword, accompanied by other men with bowler hats. All of them had wings. Oh, God, wings. Angels? Angels of Death? Was he about to die?

George wrenched his eyes off of them- at the same time, the helicopter juddered. Something had struck it. There was a problem with the engine. They were going to land on one of the nearby roofs- and then everything exploded. _Save me save me save me Oh_ _God- _

* * *

><p>George flinched, instinctively, before he opened his eyes. Then he looked down, gulped loudly, and nearly dropped the book in his right hand. The metal spike, of course, could not be dropped, seeing as he couldn't even control his left. He shoved the book into his armpit and felt at his back for the wings.<p>

He, too, had wings, then. Wings. _Wings_! He was probably dead- no, most likely dead. Where were his parents? He felt strangely betrayed.

Of course, his parents weren't around. The smouldering wreckage of the helicopter was on the ground, some hundred metres down. The rhythmic beating of the wings intensified, and George found that he was flying forward. The men in bowler hats were some distance from him, still looking about confusedly. The man with the flaming sword was coming straight at him- oh, crap-

George, on autopilot, dropped. The wings beat on his back. The man spun around, his face serene, his wings dripping with blood, and lunged. George recoiled, retreated, and did an about-face, fleeing as fast as he could go. There was a huge construction looming in front of him, something that hadn't been there before. In his haste, George had no time to evaluate the situation. He dropped, just as he reached the wall, and skimmed the surface. The metal spike bounced off the wall erratically. He looked up, panting- the man was nearing, and the look on his face and way he handled the flaming sword told that he did not mean him anything good at all- and George dodged and-

Found himself in darkness. His stiff arm was wrenched away with no small amount of pain to point in some unknown direction, dragged by the metal spike. George only just managed to snatch the book before it tumbled back into oblivion- for that was what it looked like, like a bottomless pit. There was a rectangle of light receding from him as he fell. The men were still chasing him. George turned around-

And ran into a white shirt. "Whoa there," a voice came from above him. "What's going on here?"

"I am reclaiming stolen property, Lieutenant Keeper," a Voice, melodic and persuasive, came from behind George. George found himself grasped firmly by the wrist by who he assumed to be the Lieutenant Keeper- of what he wasn't sure, but he wasn't sure if he cared, either.

"On whose orders?"

"Mister Monday's."

"Ah, that clears everything up. One problem: what were you doing interfering in the Secondary Realms?"

"I was reclaiming stolen property."

"Interference. The Keepers of the Front Door of the House have the right to detain any individuals entering or leaving the House carrying stolen property to ascertain the nature of said stolen property indefinitely if necessary. Go look it up. Now, Monday's Noon, go back and return with some proof- preferably something from the Court."

"You are lucky the Front Door is not under milord's purview, Keeper."

One of the bowler-hatted man snarled at George as the man with the flaming sword- Monday's Noon, what a weird name- flew away menacingly. He appeared to have a dog's face- for his part, George met his gaze with a slightly quizzical, dreamy air, which was incidentally how he was feeling right now. If he wasn't dead, he was clearly hallucinating. But he wasn't hallucinating. So he had to be dead.

"Thank you for that," he finally said, once the two of them were in a shimmery bubble.

"It is my duty. Noon is your inferior. You hold the Lesser Key to the Lower House- naturally, it is my duty to guard you."

"What's- I don't know where to begin-"

And the book in George's hand opened, and began to grow. "You have the Atlas," the Lieutenant Keeper said, and George nodded, gaping.

* * *

><p>The Lieutenant Keeper left, and George waved absent-mindedly as he flipped through page after page. The Atlas, as it was called, was a mind-blowing repository of knowledge- and he was damned if he was going to sit there and let all of that pass him by. So George sat there, and whenever he found a term he didn't understand, he superimposed it in his mind, and read the entry on <em>that<em> term.

He was jolted by the Lieutenant Keeper's hand on his shoulder. "Lord George," his voice came, gently, "I fear that Monday's Noon will be approaching. You will have a better chance in the Lower House, and you will be destroyed if you tarry here further."

George gulped inaudibly and heaved himself to his feet. "I see," he said. "Thank you so much. I will do my best to reciprocate in the future." _If I'm still alive_, he added silently.


	2. Monday, 2

George, for all his stability in the Front Door, flopped onto his face when he emerged out onto Doorstop Hill. The grass smelled nice, actually- just a bit… _off_. He was abruptly jerked from this brief reverie when someone gripped his arm.

He yelped, and in one smooth motion snatched the Lesser Key out of his gnarled fingers, ready to point it, and then-

"Lord George!"

The voice was hushed- just a whisper, nothing more- but George reined himself in immediately. The Denizen was dressed in black- after the first five minutes in the Door he'd resorted to flipping wildly through pages and only noting the bare minimum. If the Midnight Visitor here was calling him "Lord George", then either he was a rebel, or Monday's Dusk was on his side. _Please let it be Dusk, please let it be Dusk, please-_

"Milord Dusk has need of you." Not a very chatty group of people, the Midnight Visitors were. Not that George cared. He glanced around furtively, noting the absence of a sky, as the Visitor thumbed a button out of thin air and motioned him in.

It was a long way up. George had a mind to ask how Monday's Dusk had found him, but he'd read the Atlas, though perfunctorily, and he had a pretty good idea already- most likely Noon had griped about it to his siblings, and Dusk, knowing that Noon had returned from the Door, deduced that _he_, George, was in fact in the Door, and sent one of his Visitors. There.

When they finally arrived, and George staggered in through door after door, each room more dimly lit than the last, about two minutes had passed. Still quite long for an elevator. At last, though, they reached Monday's Dusk's office. There was a little jade frog on the desk, which was made of very dark wood (obviously), and for a minute George thought that Dusk was Noon, so similar was his face to Noon's.

"Lord George."

"LORD GEORGE."

That came from the frog. George winced. "Who's the frog- and could you please tone it down to a normal volume-" _I'm talking to a jade frog, how is this __**normal**__?_

"Lord George," the frog said, more quietly, "I am the First Part of the Will of the Architect. I am responsible for your present state, which is to say, free from the malaise plaguing your country."

_And not responsible for the deaths of my friends, family, et cetera. _George took a deep breath. "Mind if I sit down?"

Monday's Dusk gestured. A chair appeared behind him, and George sat down with a sigh. "Thanks. Uh, I didn't have much time to read the Atlas, but I've got a few questions, mostly about the running of the Lower House. Am I right in assuming that you want a coup to topple Mister Monday and install me in his place?"

Dusk smiled thinly. The Will (that was a frog) appeared indignant. "Lord George, this is not a coup- you are the Rightful Heir, it is just that you assume the traitor Monday's place-"

"Dusk would appear to know more. My apologies, Will, but it's really hard talking to you as a frog. Could you take something- erm- more useful? And also be, like, silent for a bit? That would help a great deal. At present I'm thinking in practical terms rather than just marching in and demanding the Key."

"Indeed, Lord George," Monday's Dusk began, his whispery voice a bit louder, and George settled down to listen. (But Dusk still hadn't told him how he'd known of his presence at Doorstop Hill.)

* * *

><p>Dusk's explanation was interrupted by the entrance of a very much distraught Midnight Visitor. The sulky woman whom the Will had transformed into abruptly dissolved into the frog and jumped down the throat of a dishevelled child, which had been sitting sullenly in the corner.<p>

"Milord Dusk! Monday's Noon approaches!"

Dusk stood up. So did George, but Dusk quickly fastened leather straps around his legs and arms, whispering once more, "Be silent; I shall deal with this." At which point, of course, Noon banged into the room loudly.

"Dusk! I see you have the Rightful Heir!" Dusk straightened up to meet his brother's gaze.

"Indeed I have. I was interrogating him."

"It appears that you have beaten me to it. Very eager, are you?"

"Indeed, brother."

"The atmosphere of your quarters is very fit for an interrogation. However-" Noon suddenly stepped forward, and the tiniest hint of flame could be seen at his clenched fist- "I prefer a more- _straightforward_- method. This George evaded me- I think I am more suited to punish him."

Dusk remained where he was, but spoke faster. "Brother, he has already softened towards me. I have done work on him. If you attempt to interrogate him, all the progress I have made will come to naught. I will return him to you in an hour."

"One hour is too long. Half will do better."

"Indeed, brother."

"I shall be waiting. Call me when you are finished. There are other administrative duties I have to deal with." Meaning, of course, that he would be slacking. George was tempted to smirk, but his face remained in the terrified/resigned frame that he normally slipped into when dealing with bullies back in school. Of course, those bullies were dead and he was not- a small revenge, he supposed.

What was he doing thinking about bullies? George stretched as Dusk undid the straps, and the Will quickly reformed into the same sulky woman, standing in the corner. "As I was saying, Lord George-"

* * *

><p>"Thank you, Dusk. I think I've head just about enough. I might have a plan." The Will snorted softly in the corner, but George was far too distracted to round on it. "Tell me, Piper's Child," George addressed the girl whom the Will had temporarily taken up residence in, "are you able to disable a Metal Commissionaire?"<p>

A shake of the head.

"Are you able to spread the message of my coming among your comrades and among the Denizens?"

A pause, then a guarded nod.

"Excellent. Name?"

"Suzy Turquoise Blue, Precedence-"

"I don't care about Precedence- you and your comrades would appear to be the more resourceful out of the two large groups in the House. Now, Suzy Turquoise Blue, tell your comrades of my existence, and tell the Denizens of my existence as well. Do not reveal this information to those of dubious loyalty. Monday's Dusk, a telephone, if you would?"

A telephone was pressed into his hand. George limped towards the girl and pressed it into her hand. "Use this telephone to call us. Understood?"

"Yep."

"A bit uncommunicative, but I think she'll serve," George finally said, as the Piper's Child entered into the elevator, surrounded by Midnight Visitors.

"I berated her for her talkativeness," the Will muttered, still sulking. Or perhaps that was its default mood. Still- being trapped for five thousand plus years- that could wreak havoc on even the most determined of minds. _Stop rambling, George_.

"Right. Uh, clearly Noon doesn't like me, even with and in spite of the Will," -at this the Will nodded vehemently, "-and Dawn is a bit more ambivalent, right?"

Dusk nodded. The Will was starting to look, despite its general opinion, interested.

"Yes. So if we subvert Dawn, we subvert the Corps of Inspectors. When Suzy has subverted her Pipers' Children and the Denizens, all who will remain loyal to Monday will be Noon, his people, of whom hopefully some will also be subverted, and Monday himself. And a few Denizens who remain steadfast. Best case scenario, of course." George paused to take a breath.

"Preferably we should have the battle- the inevitable battle, with Noon and his Denizens, at- where is it again- Monday's Antechamber. Then I will have a steady supply of manpower for the confrontation. We don't have much time. Wait- how much time do we have left before Noon comes back?"

Dusk's eyes widened. The sound of footsteps, as if on cue, immediately began to echo down the hall. George heaved himself to his feet and glanced at the door as the Will dissolved into a frog once more. "Is there- is there-"

"An elevator. Quick, inside." A gleaming shaft of light opened up into the office. George, Dusk, the Will and the Midnight Visitors in the office crowded in. It was a tight fit, despite the elevator's size. Dusk thumbed a button and the doors closed.

"Oh, shit, Noon knows now. Shit. Um, where is Dawn normally?"

"Dawn flits from place to place-"

"The Lower House it is. Bring us somewhere in the Lower House. Hi, Suzy, where are you at the moment?" George repeated the address to Dusk, who thumbed a few more buttons and whispered intimidatingly into the elevator tube. After some time, the lift doors opened.

"Hello, brother."

Dawn was smiling pleasantly at the other end.

* * *

><p>"I see you are harbouring a fugitive. My, but our Master will not be pleased."<p>

"Sleep!" George whispered, and pointed the Key at a nearby Inspector. Then, at rapid-fire speed to another Midnight Visitor, "Tell Ms Blue where we are. Tell her to come at once."

Dawn's face contorted, but Dusk raised his sword as well, and while she hesitated, George put down four other Inspectors- for Denizens, they didn't seem very battle-ready- then again, putting down so many would enhance the illusion of his strength. The Will changed back into its taller, female form. Dawn hesitated once more. Now George spoke, and despite his outwardly calm exterior, inside he was panicking:

"Monday's Dawn. By rights I should attack you and not the Corps of Inspectors. for the terrible things you have done in the name of your Trustee. Therefore, if you wish to remain intact, you _will_ join in our little conspiracy to restore order to the House. This is an order. If you disobey-"

George nodded at the Will, and it began to speak. It had a way with words, obviously, seeing as it was constructed from the very same thing. Dawn's face changed from anger to fear to a carefully neutral expression. Behind her, George saw about a hundred Piper's Children clambering over the rooftops. He raised a hand- _Stop_- and they stopped, though many more amassed behind them, along with a few Denizens, even.

Dawn opened her mouth, an almost wistful expression on her face- and a flaming sword roared into life above.

"I see that milord Monday was wrong to trust you," Noon stated. "A bunch of traitors, the lot of you. What sort of siblings- what sort of Denizens do you think you are, acknowledging a mortal as your better? You should know-"


	3. Monday, 3

A string of text erupted from George's left and plunged into Noon's open mouth. From his convulsing throat, the Will roared, "_I SHALL TAKE CARE OF THE TRAITOR! ATTACK THE COMMISSIONAIRE SERGEANTS!_"

* * *

><p>Some of the Denizens and Commissionaire Sergeants and Metal Commissionaires put up a fight, but most of them, when faced with two of Monday's Times, a large number of Piper's Children, Inspectors, Midnight Visitors and George himself, the Lesser Key glinting menacingly in his hand, backed off and immediately swore allegiance.<p>

"Now," George declared, breathlessly, all grief cast off, forgotten in the wake of the thousands of upturned faces in the streets of the Lower House, accompanied by Dawn and Dusk, the Lesser Key at his throat, "we march on Monday's Antechamber!"

A tinny shout rose from the Piper's Children, joined by the Denizens, then the Commissionaire Sergeants, then the Inspectors, then the Midnight Visitors. George raised his right fist in the air and smiled, exposing all his teeth. "Onward!"

While the vast majority (the minority being prisoners) flew or marched towards Monday's Antechamber, George himself descended to Noon, who was attempting to strangle himself with his right hand. The other hand was attacking his right hand viciously. "Submit," George ordered, and for a moment Noon's face slackened. Then it contorted, and the Will popped out. "He is unconscious for the time being," it said, extending out into the shape of a woman. "His loyalty to Monday and the Architect are irreconcilable."

George nodded. "Stay unconscious," he ordered, and Noon complied. Or maybe he didn't. In any case, he was still unconscious. "How long will it be before the majority reach Monday's Antechamber? Well, okay, not the majority, there are still lots of loyal Denizens, but we've taken care of them- but how long will it be?"

"One hour, Lord George."

"Can we get them there faster?"

"No."

"Flying Denizens, then?"

"About the same amount of time."

"Excellent. Monday won't know what hit him."

George gestured at the Will, and wings sprouted from its back. The two of them took to the air, rushing to catch up with the other flying Denizens.

* * *

><p>It had been four hours. Four meagre hours since George wheeled himself out of the ward, barely a week from the day that, apparently, Monday had visited him, and not even a week for him to deal with the deaths of lots of other people. He knew he shouldn't have been so cavalier about their deaths, even when in somewhere completely foreign. That was why he was trying to pull himself back, to consider.<p>

But that was in the past. Which brought another question to mind: should he go back? And the answer to that was: No. He had nothing to go back to. If he went back then the affairs of the House would follow him, and anyway-

The House was _interesting_.

George had earned a reputation in his school for being intelligent (supposedly) and "deformed". He moved constantly, but not really in terms of body, finishing multiple projects in quick succession. He thought quickly. And _that_ was why he was drawing up plans already, for the takeover of the House.

The takeover of Creation. Absurd, absurd, _absurd_! _What_ was he thinking? It was madness? _This_ was madness!

But then again so was the epidemic.

But George also refused to let himself move on from the deaths. He had to reflect, to mourn. But hadn't he mourned enough? Shouldn't he have allowed himself to move on, get caught up in the grand flow of things?

He focused on the situation at hand; below thousands of immortals moving like blood through veins, motivated by his promises, above a great flock large enough to blot out the sun, and him at the middle, together yet separate, so much that the flock instinctively lowered themselves so that he might be higher, so that he might see what was ahead.

Yes. He supposed it was time to move on.

* * *

><p>Monday, contrary to George's belief, did know what was going to hit him. From afar, George could see a slumped figure leaning at the mouth of the volcano housing Monday's Dayroom, with rusted golden wings. <em>Monday<em>- the sigh echoed through the ranks. "Isn't anyone going to help him?" George enquired of Dusk.

"Tuesday busies himself with mining, Wednesday is incapable, Thursday will not move unless Saturday or Sunday orders it, Friday is distracted, Saturday is building her Tower and will not intervene, and Sunday is busy with his Gardens."

"Oh."

It seemed almost too easy. At the tents around the Antechamber, Denizens were stepping out, stopping to regard the oncoming horde, and most likely wondering whether to join or not. George put the Lesser Key to his throat.

"Denizens of the Lower House. A time of great upheaval is this- a time where we, all of us, might be free of the inefficiencies that have plagued the Lower House since Monday assumed office. Join us, Denizens. Join us and we will relieve Monday permanently of power."

The slumped figure jerked awake. Slowly, almost languidly, he raised the tiny object in his hand and pointed it at the oncoming group of Denizens, and those at the foot of the volcano, turning towards him with treachery in their eyes.

The volcano behind Monday coughed and sputtered. Then, suddenly, it erupted. Lava and ash streamed out at an inordinately fast rate, striking the silver dome, raining down on the flying and running Denizens alike. George urged his wings forward, shouted, "Dawn, Dusk, Will, Midnight Visitors, Inspectors, and Commissionaire Sergeants, to me-" and immediately a portion of the flock detached and streaked towards him.

"Protect us," George whispered, and Monday's head snapped towards him. The lava and ash above began to rain down upon George and the flock behind him, a triangular formation with George at the top.

A glistening transparent shield covered the group. The formation shifted to establish a uniform front line, with George at the centre of the front. The Will boomed, "Submit, Monday! Your end is near!"

Monday shouted something indistinct. It might have been defiance, but immediately- there was a _pressure_, something pushing hard down on George's shield. He resisted for but a moment- the flock slowed down to a crawl- and then let go.

A vortex of destructive power struck the flock- but by then all of them were rocketing forward, with only an unlucky few caught in the blast. George was carried along. He raised his right hand and pointed it at Monday. Then he recited the incantation. It started off formally, but close to the end it petered out into a scream.

The Greater Key shot into his palm. "No-" Monday shouted, because George was close enough to actually hear what he was saying, but it was too late, because he disappeared under a horde of Denizens. Cursing as his wings slowed down, George went through the motions of the ritual as the Will had told him before it too flew off to attack Monday-

"I, George, anointed Heir to the Kingdom-"

"Halt." There was a soft voice at his back, and a burning blade stabbed into his back. George howled. Where the majority of the flock was, a few Denizens turned back, their mouths opening with horror. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Lord George."

Through the pain, George wrenched free of the knife and exploded away, descending diagonally to the ground. His voice sounded muffled to his ears.

"-claim this Key and with it Master of the Lower House. I claim it by blood and bone and contest-"

Monday finally broke out and streaked at George, his face so contorted as to scarcely seem human anymore. George gabbled the words out, disengaging his wings so as to fall faster than Monday.

"-Out of truth in testament and against all trouble okay there now it's over Monday and the other guy you know who I'm talking to stand still you heard me _stand still_. And fix me. Now."

The two Keys merged together. The burning hole in George's spine closed with a _pop_, and with a jolt he regained feeling in his left leg. His right leg, of course, dangled. Monday and the intruder, a man dressed in pink, stopped moving, frozen in mid-air. George looked up and shouted, "Does anyone know who this unknown Denizen is?"

A shout from the Will. "One of Saturday's underlings!"

"Well, I guess she'd best learn to cope with a fair bit of disappointment! To the majority of Denizens and all Piper's Children, return to work. Give me one day to sort out the administrative issues. Dawn, Dusk, Will, Monday, stay behind. Underling of Saturday (whoever that is), goodbye." George plunged the First Key into the chest of the Denizen and watched as he dissolved.

* * *

><p>Monday's Antechamber was no more. In the volcano's place was a tower, with roughly the same contours as the volcano- only much more regular. <em>No sharp points or excessive curves<em>, thought George, as he finished the construction. The Denizens in the Antechamber had packed up their tents. A few Piper's Children raced up and down the line, collating grievances. Once the Denizens had aired their grievances and complaints, they were urged to go back and return to work. Not a bad system, all in all. There was a surprisingly large number of petty complaints close to the tail end of the queue. The more pertinent ones tended to be at the front.

George entered the room at the pinnacle of the tower. "Lord George," came the chorus as he flew in the window and landed none too gracefully. Noon had been packed over and imprisoned. He appeared more resigned than hateful, now. Monday was busy glaring at everyone in the room, muttering, "Traitor."

"Dawn, Dusk, you two will maintain order and, well, do the jobs that you were meant to do. Once the Piper's Children have compiled their lists, I'll send one third to you and the other to you. You will answer those cries. Monday, Noon, it would be best that you go and fix what you started. For what it's worth, be healed."

The Will gaped as the sword glowed briefly. For his part, George acknowledged the departure of Dawn and Dusk. "The two of you- Monday and Noon- will deal with getting the Lower House up to speed. I trust that you will do your job. Oh, yes- if no such job existed before, it does now. Do _not_ neglect it, or there will be consequences. Understood? Good."

The two others left. Now only the Will remained. George traced his fingers along the desk and looked at the Will.

"Can you handle the responsibilities of Noon, Will?"

"I should expect so."

"Excellent. So be it, then."

The relatively drab attire of the Will changed into a feminized version of Noon's clothing. "You know, it's a bit strange that you're female, and the old Noon was male."

"I could change my form if it pleases you milord-"

"No, that'd be weird."

The Will- Monday's Noon, now- left. George ran his fingers along the hilt of the sword. Soon, the Piper's Children would be done. He felt in his pocket for the Atlas, and placed it on the table. Now it took but a brush of the finger for it to open up to an article labelled as _The Administration of the Lower House._

He frowned as he traced his hospital gown. "Give me some proper clothing," George instructed, and immediately a suit, not dissimilar to that of the old Noon or Dusk, was draped over his frame. "Now a drink," and a cup of Coca-Cola sprang into being.

He squinted once, placing his unresponsive left arm on the table. With his right, he traced the path of the writing, and began to read.

_The multiple deficiencies in the Lower House may be divided into two main categories: first, the duties that it is to perform as a Demesne in the House and second the purpose that it bears to perform as the Lower House. In the first category we have infrastructural, budget and transportation deficiencies; in the second category we have phone operation, the postage service…_


	4. In-Between

**Author's Note: My sincere apologies for putting this warning over here. This story has bad language. Please R&R.**

**This is not my first KTTK fanfiction. My previous one did not measure up to my standards. For those intending to read more, my apologies. But this should be better!**

* * *

><p>"Walk with me."<p>

The Sower removed himself from his gardening and fell into step beside his Lord, walking just a bit slower and stooping. That was how one always walked with Lord Sunday, unless one wanted to be punished.

"There's been a commotion in the Lower House, Sower."

"Indeed, milord."

"What do you think of it?"

The Sower paused. If he answered wrong- no, his Lord would not care either way if he answered wrongly or correctly. His Lord listened only to his own opinion.

"Milord, I believe it is highly irregular."

"The release of the Will is something that will not be tolerated in this Demesne. Not in the Incomparable Gardens. They can do what they like in the lower regions, those lesser Denizens, but not here. Is that _understood_?" Lord Sunday's eyes were flinty, and blacker than the Void.

"I understand, milord."

Lord Sunday ignored the Sower and walked on. The Sower straightened up and moved off to do more gardening.

* * *

><p>"<em>What?<em>"

The screech echoed through the first fifty floors of the Tower. None of the House Sorcerers spoke, though they stopped briefly to glance upwards, though the Piper's Children did.

"Hey, what d'you think happened?"

"He died- you know, that Pravuil. Remember him? Made the system malfunction for kicks, made it crush five of our own. Killed by Lord George, sliced through by the First Key."

"Who's 'e?"

"You're behind, ain't you? Lord George- he took over the Lower House! Don't you know?"

"But the postage still isn't working!"

"He's a busy man, I guess. Doesn't like the Days much either, I think. So he's not doing what they want him to do. That there Sorcerer told me Lord George is calling in his debts from the other Days."

"Is 'e, now? The Sup pays her bills, don't she?"

"To the Far Reaches, and the Great Maze, I think. The rest of them don't care anymore. Or didn't, in the case of the Lower House, 'till Lord Georg came around."

After that, the conversation drifted to other topics. It was too depressing to think of all the freedom their compatriots were having in the Lower House. For all of Saturday's envy, the Upper House was still very high up.

* * *

><p>"Friday's Dawn?"<p>

Friday's Dawn turned around. A dishevelled Piper's Child approached, toting a package. "Package for you, sir! From the Lower House."

"I have not seen you around the post office."

"Yeah, no one ever goes anymore. But today there was one Denizen there- he told me to pass this to you. Paid me for it, too. If you would sign here?"

Friday's Dawn signed for the package. At his back, his Gilded Youths continued to patrol. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Friday's Dawn, sir." The Piper's Child ran off.

Dawn unwrapped the package. What emerged was a book, entitled, tellingly, _Coup D'état_. And, in smaller, blasphemous print, _the Principles of Political Upheaval when applied to the Middle House_. And, on the page where there should have been some acknowledgements, there was one line of text:

_Let the Will be done._

_-Lord George of the Lower House, 2014._

Friday's Dawn shut the book with a loud snap. For a moment, he was tempted to simply destroy it, to let its contents drift off into the snowy wind.

Then he looked up at the sky.

For how long had it snowed? For how long had his Lady dwelt in her retreat?

Friday's Dawn looked back down at the book and stowed it somewhere in his armour.

* * *

><p>"Good luck, recruits! It has been a satisfying century leading your platoon- but now the time comes to disband! Ten-hut!"<p>

The recruits executed a complicated drill. Platoon Leader Gertud saluted.

"At ease! Farewell, soldiers!"

"Farewell, Platoon Leader Gertud!"

The platoon disbanded silently and moved off to their dormitory. "Platoon Leader Gertud?"

"Yes?" Gertud spun around. A Denizen was standing behind him, not in any sort of uniform. "I am here to collect fresh recruits from the Lower House. Marshall Noon gave me permission."

"Ah. May I enquire what for?"

"Certainly you may. Lord George is conducting a reorientation tour of the Lower House following, erm, recent political developments. As fresh recruits out of the Glorious Army of the Architect, they will have a special place in the reconstruction of the Lower House."

"The reconstruction? You don't mean…"

"Lord George's own words, Platoon Leader Gertud. Ah- I see your recruits have packed up. _Recruits from the Lower House, please follow me!_" The last sentence was shouted. Fourteen recruits hoisted their bags upon their back and approached the Denizen with something approaching trepidation. Gertud snorted under his breath. One had not known _true_ trepidation unless one had fought Nithlings in the dead of night.

* * *

><p>"Ah, Lord George has become aware of Drown- <em>Duchess<em> Wednesday's, err, condition and history. He has no quarrel with her, overt or otherwise. He would like to inform you, personally of course, that although restoring the postal service is not much, he hopes to forge stronger relations. In his words, completely verbatim you understand, _we are, after all, both traitors, Duchess Wednesday and I_."

"…I see. Thank you."

"I'll just get back to work then, milady?"

"You do that."

Wednesday's Dawn paused at the waterfront, the Denizen from the post office still bustling around, and then flew into the sky. It was high time she informed the Duchess of… recent developments.

* * *

><p>"No!"<p>

The shout echoed through Tuesday's Pyramid. Every Denizen near the top of the Pit looked up, Overseers and Grotesques included, but when no answer was forthcoming, the digging continued. Up in the Pyramid, Pits chased the messenger from the Lower House away as the Grim raged.

"That- thrice-damned mortal-" Tuesday was very much apoplectic, it seemed.

"Calm down, milord. Shall I fetch-"

"You shall fetch _nothing_! The Heir is calling in his debts, with, with _paperwork_! His debt- Monday was the only Trustee inferior to me- _now_ how am I going to call in his debts? All that money- down the drain." Tuesday was calming down. His gauntleted fingers scratched at the air sporadically. "There is nothing legal I can do to get all that money back. The debt- the debt down by nearly half! Only three-quarters of the Lower House is worth that amount."

Pits backed out of the room to leave his Lord to his misery. As he struggled down the flights of stairs, he looked down over the Pit. There were rumours among his fellow Grotesques and among the Overseers that the new arrivals from the Lower House were running a conspiracy among the workers that reached all the way up to a minority of Overseers. According to Tan and Azer, they were just that- rumours. And if there had been a chance of the rumours spreading among the indentured, that, too, had been crushed. Now it was just a joke to be passed around on the locomotive. "Did you hear? That worker over had been muttering about how Lord George would come and save him? I set him straight, didn't I?"

Pits had reached the bottom. He narrowed his eyes at another Denizen from the Lower House. Those Denizens- they were getting more and more uppity these days, weren't they? Nothing had changed with George- he was still sending indentured servants down, wasn't he? It really was amusing.

"What do you think you're doing, slacking off? Go on, back to work!" Pits hoisted his steam gun over the head and pulled the trigger a few times. Back to work for himself as well.

* * *

><p>Delistle was the Seventeenth Assistant in Charge of Wings in Segment Eighteen of the Lower House. He was the only Assistant- with Lord George's ascension a month ago, nearly all of his colleagues had become redundant and transferred to other departments which were more labour-intensive. Before, he had been the Eleventh Deputy Associate Assistant, a hundred other Denizens above and below him, as the higher-ups got the hang of delegating and delegating until they did not need to do anything- but now the office was considerably more spacious.<p>

The buildings were gleaming now, and the Not-Horses cantered by at twice the speed they used to. There was only one supplier for everything now- competition was not a good thing, Lord George said, not in the House. (No one knew what he was comparing the House to.) Delistle went about his work in blissful silence. His activities, of course, were limited to Segment Eighteen- there were Twenty-Three others in the House. Each Segment had Twenty-Four Denizens taking care of one activity each, in one Sector of Twenty-Four.

The general opinion was that Lord George had done all of it, but there were whispers- whispers only, that were quashed swiftly by the Corps of Inspectors, the Commissionaire Sergeants and the Midnight Visitors- that the former Mister Monday had also done a fair share of the work. But no one knew for sure, of course, and it was better to assume that Lord George had done all of it.

Ezeri poked his head in through the door- he distributed quills- and called, excitedly, "Delistle! Come out, Lord George is giving a speech at the Antechamber!" Delistle pulled out his cart of wings- the special one, in case of something urgent like this- and, rushing through the streets, doled them out like currency. In Segment Eighteen, Sector Seventeen, it was his paramount duty to distribute and keep track of wings for his superior's perusal, an Inspector under Monday's Dawn.

By the time they arrived at the Antechamber, Lord George had left his Dayroom- now colloquially known as the Tower- and was walking among the ranks of Denizens, his left arm unmoving, the _click-drag-click-drag_ rhythm of his stride loud and clear among the silent rows. Delistle arrived with his colleagues in Segment Eighteen, Sector Seventeen, and waited with baited breath with everyone else.

It took some time, but everyone else arrived. Monday's Dawn, Noon and Dusk stood on the stage, raised only minutes ago by the sword that Lord George held in his left arm. Lord George and the First Key were all over the place in the Lower House proper- he motivated the Denizens to do better, the official line was.

Lord George began to speak. His voice was precise and alert- his eyes, which stared out from every printed poster, were piercing and lively.

"My Denizens," he began, and the square erupted into applause. Delistle could see that the Inspectors and the Sergeant Commissionaires in the crowd were the ones clapping the loudest, and urging those around them to clap as well. Why, there was one Inspector right in front of him- his supervisor. "Clap, Denizens," he exclaimed at the rest of them, "clap!"

So there was nothing to do but clap. Delistle clapped.

"My Denizens," and this time the plains were silent, "it has been one month since I took the office of Mister Monday. Many changes have taken place, but the most important has not yet come. Though everything has been streamlined and made efficient, it is not yet efficient enough."

Noon, standing alongside Lord George, smiled thinly.

"I have been working closely with my Times to fix this final problem, but really, there is only one solution: you. You, my Denizens, are the solution! When you get back to your workstations, I expect you to work twice as hard as you were working initially. We have only ten percent of all records safely stored where they should be. By the time the sun rises and falls for the twenty-first time, I expect one hundred percent of all records to be stored and monitored. Do not fail me in this enterprise!"

_Or else_, was the hidden statement. But Delistle seemed to be the only one in the crowd who noticed that, for the plains erupted into ever-louder, near-ecstatic applause, and roars of approval.

"Not just that," Lord George shouted, leaning into the microphone and gesticulating with one clenched fist and the First Key, as he had been at the most pivotal moments in his previous speeches, "I have a _traitor_! Our ally in the Front Door, the Lieutenant Keeper, whom we have sent Denizens to aid and assist in spite of the refusal of the other Trustees to act, has captured a _traitor_! He is- none other- than the turncoat bastard of Monday's old Noon!"

Lord George's new Noon was smiling openly now, but Delistle fancied Monday's Dusk's fists were clenched, and Monday's Dawn's smile more than a little bit forced. But the plains filled with a great roar, and to his left and right Denizens were shouting with all the force they had in their throats.

"He was trying to _escape_, to flee into the Secondary Realms- and _interfere_!"

Boos and spittle flew from the crowd. Back in Mister Monday's time, none of his colleagues had been able to express emotion beyond fear, satisfaction or joy. That was another of Lord George's "changes", as touted by his Noon.

"Death by the First Key is too good for him. Noon?"

A Denizen was hauled onstage by Metal Commissionaires- the old Noon. The new Noon paused, head cocked to hear the roars of approval and hatred radiating from the Denizens of the Lower House, who were now pulsing on the balls of their feet, baying for blood. Then Lord George nodded- the sword of Architectural Fire came out- and the roars grew louder, if such a thing was even possible.

Delistle felt sick as the old Noon's head rolled onto the floor. Something was very wrong with the Lower House.

Now, if only he knew _what_.


	5. Wednesday

George slid on his coat one-handed. Dawn and Dusk were still whispering behind his back- though he could have straight-up used the Key to obtain information on what they were whispering about, he chose not to. In retrospect, killing their brother one month back had _not_ been the smartest thing to do. The Lower House would have been loyal either way without the death of a Denizen.

The rest of them had been swamping him with paperwork, the damned Trustees. Now there was more to do, apart from simply slotting the records in place. He'd had to make more speeches, and each time he called the Denizens to work harder. It wasn't like they had limits, though… did they? Anyway.

In governing, he'd taken most of his cues from Hitler. The Denizens weren't human, after all- he had no qualms about being dictatorial if they couldn't feel like normal humans could. But they responded to stimuli. Oh, did they respond! Just a few Inspectors and Commissionaire Sergeants in the audience, told to yell at the right times, and- wow. His blood was up when he ordered the Will to kill Noon. It had been up the whole day, leading up to the speech.

Noon's death had been illegal and stupid. Bloody _stupid_. George, you idiot.

Elevators couldn't be trusted. In retrospect, killing Saturday's underling had been stupid as well. None of the Days were paying up. It was very much a cold war between him and the rest of them- well, him and Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. None of the rest cared. Except Duchess Wednesday.

He'd read her entry in the Atlas, along with all the administrative information about the Lower House. (The Demesnes all ran in pretty much the same way, save the differences that came with their purposes.) She'd tried to execute it, but in return? Treachery. She should have known- but George had not conversed with her for the sole purpose of judging her.

The Lieutenant Keeper patrolled with a number of Midnight Visitors regularly. This further endeared him towards George- and secured him a free ticket to jump back and forth between Demesnes without using any of the treacherous transportation. Everything was ruled by Saturday, really. Terrifying.

At their… _luncheon_… the Duchess had told George of her wish to get rid of the bloody curse, if only the Will was released. But _where_ was it, was the question. Well, one Trustee at a time. George's parents had said that he had an unhealthy obsession with sequence. _To hell with that_, George finally decided, and left his office.

As Master of the Lower House, he had very nice wings. They were built in- came with the position, apparently- and- uh- very nice. It was very hard to describe them, but they were- hm- very nice. George touched the First Key to his throat- at least, he touched the handle of the First Key to his throat.

"Noon, to me!"

The Will swung into position beside him. "Milord?"

"Gather the recruits from the Great Maze, the ones in the unofficial militia, and your own people. We're going on a neat little trip."

* * *

><p>The Raised Rats interested him. As a child, George had read about the Pied Piper of Hamelin. To have such fairy tales come to life before his eyes in the form of completely inhuman, man-sized rats was disconcerting, to say the least. The Piper's Children had been interesting enough, but the Raised Rats- irrevocable proof that this was no longer Earth, but something far, far stranger.<p>

George had treated with them. "I have no money to spare," he said, "but I serve the Architect. You serve her son, the Piper, and you are not against me. That is enough. So, do I have to ask, or do I have to demand?"

The Rats were smart enough to allow him free passage, and soon George had a Denizen on every ship, waiting for the time when he would be able to go down, which was after he'd usurped Tuesday's position. And, additionally, the information that the Will was hidden within Wednesday herself, which was more than a bit disgusting and complicated matters in a practical sense.

Then again, he have just chosen to get the bloody Third Key there and then.

So that was what he was doing now. (Well, not him per se.)

When George with his full complement of Denizens arrived, the fleet of the Raised Rats was at his disposal. "Well met, Rats!" George shouted, as his wings descended.

The appointed leader nodded. George had never had the mind to remember his name. "Lord George," it shouted over the spray. "We have arrived."

"I doubt we will be very long," George told the Rat, while Denizen after Denizen climbed into the submarines. "We'll be in, and we'll be out. My thanks for your hospitality."

"Don't mention it-" the Rat began, but there was a shout from above. "Lord George!"

"Wednesday's Dawn."

"My mistress is aware. She will do all that is in her power to allow your submarines to enter."

"Thank you." Given Wednesday's behaviour during their _luncheon_, George didn't really hold much hope in her power or self-control. Still, it was better than nothing. "Farewell," he told the Rat, and none-too-subtly gestured at the hatch of the submarine. Perhaps the Rat thought of him as a coward; perhaps it thought of him as a Trustee, distant and uncaring. George couldn't really bring himself to care- it was, after all, at base just a rat.

His voice boomed out over the waters. "Good luck!" It was a perfunctory gesture, but it would suffice.

* * *

><p>George stood with Wednesday's Dawn as they waited quietly for the submarines to emerge. He did not consider the possibility of failure, simply because the Will was also his Noon, and had a number of highly trained Denizens with it, as well as the veritably guaranteed support of many, many slaves. The Trustees ran a rickety structure- all George had to do was kick the door in and the whole rotten construction would come crashing down. He just needed to give the order.<p>

* * *

><p>God, this was boring.<p>

* * *

><p>It took five hours of waiting- he was sorely tempted to use the phone, but the wiring still ran with the Far Reaches, and Tuesday could eavesdrop, so he didn't. George instead focused on moving his left arm- and who knew? Five hours of determined alone-time with his stubborn left arm could work wonders. He was already appearing to be a Denizen superficially. So it came as no surprise when the eternally tight muscles in his arm disengaged simultaneously, and his gnarled fingers finally relaxed. George crowed, "Success!"<p>

At the same time, Wednesday gave a long, shuddering groan, and a stream of foam erupted from her mouth. The full complement of submarines emerged, their external hulls pocked with holes from corrosion. "Lord George," his Noon declared, as she emerged from the foremost submarine toting a fishbowl, "I have located my Third Part, and the ex-slaves are in the once-empty submarines. The pirates, as you ordered, did not survive. We shall-"

George cut her off with a sharp motion, for behind the submarines, Wednesday was rearing up. His Noon stuck a hand into the fishbowl and assimilated her Third Part quickly, and a new, somewhat different voice issued from her throat, at the same time merging with her original voice as the First Part.

"Wednesday! I, Part Three of the Will-"

Get in, get out. Everything had been proceeding according to plan. The Trustees wouldn't have been able to react fast enough. Blitzkrieg. Still, caution had to remain. George recited his short acceptance speech of the Third Key- and Wednesday died.

Well. That was unexpected. "Return to the Void," George stated, clearly. He did not want to look at Wednesday's Dawn. To his right, his Noon assumed her place. "I assume your left arm is fully functional, Lord George?"

"Yes, it is. Well!" George spun around and clapped his hands. "We've got a lot of work to do, Denizens! All Denizens still able to move, inform your colleagues of the recent political reform in the Border Sea and tell them to come straight to my destination! In fact- oh, never mind."

George tightened his grip on the Third Key, the First dangling from his other hand. The Border Sea surged, and at once a great many ships appeared on the horizon, some damaged, some not. "Gather all seaworthy vessels to me," he had whispered, and the Third Key was fulfilling that which it had set out to do.

"Is there anything I should do, Lord George?" Wednesday's Dawn had finally found her voice, but was clearly not quite in the right frame of mind. Without turning, brow furrowed, George replied, "Take a good, long rest, Dawn. You've earned it."

"Tell me, Noon. With the, ah, demise of Wednesday, will the water displaced by her ever recede?"

"That is a good question, milord. If the Line of Storms were as tight as ever, it would not, but, as splintered and fractured as it is, the water does not seem set to recede as of yet."

"Damn it."

Wednesday had depleted her Demesne of available Denizens, either by 1) consuming them or 2) drowning them. And her Dawn was taking a break. George hadn't the heart to call her from her mourning (at least, that's what he thought she was doing), but the assembled seafarers were looking at him in confusion, awe and a bit of fear. George coughed.

"Ah! Right! Good day, Denizens of the Border Sea. Your previous Duchess, Wednesday, has regrettably passed on as a result of her- uh- ailment. A great pity. However, we must move on. I am arranging a strict salvaging and patrolling schedule as of now." Briefly, George shut his eyes. An image of the Border Sea appeared in his mind's eye, crystal-clear and supplied by the Third Key. Somehow, the ocean seemed much larger than any manmade city. Or maybe he was just jumping to conclusions.

"All right! My apologies for the delay. All right. The Border Sea is to be divided into five hundred and seventy-six segments- I will print out the necessary information once I return to the Lower House- and you will all be called on to patrol. One ship per segment. Until then, you are to remain here, as this is closest to the Front Door. I will be back soon with orders. Until then- ah, yes. Highest in Precedence here?"

There was a brief hail of muttering. George whispered to his Noon, "Go first. I'll be right after." Finally, two Denizens stepped forward.

"All right. Who's the higher one?"

"Me."

"Great! You, whoever you are, are now Wednesday's Noon. You have no duties as of yet. Likewise for you, Wednesday's Dusk. Wait for me, okay? I'll be right back, I swear. Just- hang on a minute."

George spun around and whizzed back into the Front Door. He barely had time to say hello to the Lieutenant Keeper before he was back in his Tower. There were a few spare sheets of paper, and he channelled his thoughts straight through the First Key to produce a proper layout of the Border Sea, with co-ordinates included.

"Five hundred seventy-six copies, top priority," he rattled off to one of the Denizens who ran the printing press, and stayed there to watch as she frantically printed three more copies and distributed them to her comrades. There was a Piper's Child working to transport copies who looked vaguely familiar. (Eh, they all looked the same anyway.) George checked his watch.

* * *

><p>"Done, Lord George!" The manager of the printing press placed a towering stack of papers into George's hands. "Thank you for letting us help!"<p>

"No problem," he shot back, already halfway out the door. "You- I'll let you be the first to tell everyone that I am officially Duke of the Border Sea in addition to being Master of the Lower House. Now _go_!"

George did not bother to see whether the manager had actually went. The Front Door opened up for him, he moved back to the Border Sea and distributed the papers. "Do your patrolling, please," he told the Denizens. "Noon, you take the east. Dusk, you take the west."

Now- only a couple ten thousand encroachments regarding the Border Sea that he had to fix, and all would be fine. George allowed his wings to carry him away. "As fast and quick as clockwork," he muttered to himself. Hopefully Dawn would be well enough when he got back.


	6. Tuesday, 1

"Denizens," George shouted into the microphone, "today we celebrate the third month of my arrival in the House! Over the past three months, the Trustees have been bombarding us with paperwork! But have we submitted to their vile tricks?"

"_NO!_" The Denizens screamed.

"That is _correct_! All our records are in place, now, and so we have the time and wherewithal to hit them back with our defiance! Today, I give _all_ Denizens a break from work! Instead, I want all of you to pack up all your paperwork- and _send it right back to the treacherous Trustees!_"

"_Lord George! Lord George!_"

* * *

><p>George sat heavily into his chair. One straight month of pulling the Border Sea, by hook or by crook, back into its bounds had been exhausting, whether it healed him or not. On the one hand- his right leg was working again. George grinned at it and flexed his knees.<p>

On the other hand- god_damn_ but it was exhausting. Still, his Times had been a great help. He was not yet proud enough to expect them to do their job- he knew he was in a very precarious position, what with Monday's Dawn and Dusk still pissed off at him for killing their brother. It felt an awful lot like he could vent out all the superior-Denizen-rage-and-pride by giving speeches. Or perhaps that was a placebo, but- meh. Not the point.

George interlaced his fingers and stared at nothing. He needed to plan. Sure, he'd been resting for one day, but now- his gains were consolidated, a few superfluous (and with his efficiency drive, a _lot_ of them were) Denizens had been transplanted to the Border Sea to administer alongside his new Noon and Dusk. So, what should be his newest acquisition?

His Noon had fixed a map on his wall. For all the mystery and wonder of the Border Sea, George was not a fan of the water, having been afraid of drowning for as long as he could remember, on account of his cerebral palsy. Even with _that_ healed, the unsteady floor underneath his shoes made him slightly sick. And there was not much to be said when being stared up at by so few Denizens. No. Better to maintain his power base in the Lower House than to venture into that sort of weird territory.

His Atlas was still in his desk. To refresh his memory, George flipped to the entry on the Far Reaches, and began to read. His newest acquisition? Well- in terms of sequence, Tuesday was between Monday and Wednesday. The Grim, or so he called himself, was hemmed in. And George already had a few… _things_… in place.

* * *

><p>George fancied this time would be a better jaunt than before- nice, solid ground was a wonderful alternative to the Border Sea. (<em>Eurgh, the Border Sea.<em>)

Now, Tan and Azer had been fairly easy to pacify- it had taken one glance at the First Key for them to slip and vow allegiance. For all their slave-like obedience toward Tuesday, if one capitalized enough on the _fear_ and _hatred_ of the so-called _fear, hatred, love_ paradigm, it was simple to subvert them. All George had needed to do was talk about Tuesday for a while and surround them with Midnight Visitors, Commissionaire Sergeants and Inspectors, along with a very intimidating Monday's Noon.

Back when he'd just entered the House, Tuesday had called in his debts. So George had called in _his_ debts, but for kicks, he sent a hundred Denizens down. "I will come for you in six months," he'd told them, and also informed them that it was their duty to spread the word, to be ready when the time came. There was a neat code-word that he'd send through the postal service, but it wasn't really finalized yet. George supposed a horde of armed Denizens storming through the Front Door could really put things into perspective, though.

He had no idea where the ledger of indentured workers was, though. If he was a betting man (_no, a betting Denizen, heh_) he supposed it was in Tuesday's Pyramid. Anything could be achieved if you had enough Denizens to throw at it and enough materiel. Sure, in chess there was much less materiel easily available, and less grandeur, but the same principles applied. Speaking of which, he hadn't played chess in a while.

Anyway.

George finished his wine (_there was no such thing as a legal age in the House, after all_) and shut the Atlas. With one hand he gripped the Third Key and with the other the First. Then he jumped out the window.

"Noon, Dusk, to me! And bring your Denizens!"

Noon and Dusk arrived, along with their assorted personnel. George reckoned the newest arrivals from the Great Maze would have to do as well. "Noon, bring me the new arrivals. From the Maze. _Dawn, to me!_"

Dawn arrived. "Dawn, I'm leaving temporarily. Expected to return in twelve hours, maximum, with the Second Key. The Lower House is fairly orderly, but take no chances. Try to keep it running 'till I get back. Thank you."

Noon arrived with his unofficial militia. George nodded at her, and she took her place at his side. "We move to the Far Reaches! I assume you've had the briefing? Two weeks ago?"

A chorus of nods and verbal affirmation.

"Excellent."

Like the previous operation in the Sea, this one would follow the principles of blitzkrieg- a fast, hard punch, so fast none of the Days would be able to take it. Now, with the Border Sea the Trustees had long since abandoned it to rot, so there was no leverage George could use. Now, the Far Reaches, centre of manufacturing in the House… that was a different matter altogether.

"Milord George." The Lieutenant Keeper bowed, as did his complement of Midnight Visitors.

"Lieutenant Keeper. I'm sorry I couldn't appoint a Captain Keeper. I trust the Midnight Visitors are some help?"

"Indeed, milord. A bit slow, but they learn quickly."

"Well done, lads! Lieutenant Keeper, would you mind showing us to the Far Reaches?"

"Certainly, milord."

* * *

><p>The Far Reaches loomed up before them- one of the remaining intact parts of Tuesday's Demesne, nearly the only spare bit of land not taken up by infrastructure. The Days used it for visits- or maybe they didn't. In any case, Tuesday hadn't filled it up.<p>

"Ready, milord?" George nodded, then held up a hand. He turned around.

"Ready, my Denizens?"

"_Yes, Lord George!_"

George raised the First Key to his throat. The Lieutenant Keeper opened the Door.

"_For freedom and Lord George!_"

"_FOR FREEDOM AND LORD GEORGE!_"


	7. Tuesday, 2

Yan watched, wide-eyed, as the swarm of Denizens erupted from the Door. He had to tell the Grim. Mind made up, he scrambled from the locomotive and tottered unsteadily towards his Lord's Treasure Pyramid. Above, the cry echoed, seeming to grow ever-louder as it reverberated about the Pit. Why was it reverberating, anyway?

Oh.

The miners were rebelling. That was worse. Yan gritted his teeth and picked up his pace, only to find Tan and Azer at the door of the Pyramid, holding it open for at least a thousand Denizens, all streaming in by the one door. "Treachery!" Yan howled, and Tan and Azer glanced at him.

"I'm afraid I can't let you call your fellow Grotesques that," a voice came from behind him, clearly and amiably. Yan turned around, steeling himself for what was to come. Then:

A chuckle. Yan looked up, and saw a Denizen, impossibly handsome, more so that even the Grim. In one hand he held what Yan distinctly remembered to be the Third Key, and in the other he held the First Key. No surprises there. The Denizen- Lord George- (_who told me he was mortal_) smiled at him, but his eyes sparkled with hidden malice.

"I have no wish to harm any of you Grotesques. I prefer to leave the infrastructure standing, if you will. The Overseers and the Grotesques I do not wish to demote or destroy- only this tiresome Pit and the slavery rampant in this Demesne. For this, the Grim must have the power so graciously granted him by the Architect- revoked. Go and tell your fellow Grotesques, Yan. It _is_ Yan, isn't it?"

Yan nodded, gaping. The higher-ups had never been so civil- they hadn't even visited in five thousand years, except that time when Superior Saturday came calling with Sir Thursday. They didn't even bother looking at him. He remained gaping as Lord George moved into the Treasure Pyramid.

"He's right polite, isn't he, Yan?" Tan queried. "He was polite to us too- he told us he didn't want to hurt us. In any case, our Lord- whether we want to or not- he's finished. Lord George promised him leniency, and he swore on his First Key."

Yan felt very odd. There was a faint ache in his chest. Azer, too, seemed slightly drowsy. A burst of panic erupted through the slight link that the seven of them had- Tethera shrieked, distantly, in pain. And soon all of them were experiencing the very same stab that Tethera had.

_Disadvantages of being a Grotesque_, Yan thought hazily, before he ceased to exist.

* * *

><p>The indentured slaves below were rebelling, George saw. But now their rebellion seemed to take place with a more ferocious intensity. With his enhanced eyesight, it was clear that now the Overseers were joining in the rebellion- or was it a mad rush? Oh, dear, it <em>was<em> a mad rush. Sirens were sounding. All the Denizens in Tuesday's Pyramid, ransacking every room, paused, heads cocked.

"It's nothing," George shouted, waving a hand. "Soon, the indentured servants will arrive, and more hands will make light work."

He looked up at the tip of the Pyramid, and leapt. Wings erupting from his back, George flew upwards in a straight arrow, arriving finally at the second-highest floor. The Grim was rushing down the stairs, teeth gritted, and his fingers left indents on the railings. He turned his head to look at George, snarled, and made a mad grab for his wings. George dodged.

"There are two things you can do," he called. "One, you can go and try to fight a thousand superior Denizens and myself, or two, you can go down to the Pit and see what's causing the ruckus. I suggest option two."

"There's a breach!" Tuesday shouted. "The Void breached my dam!"

"I'll leave you to make your decision," George stated, softer, and dropped back down to the first few floors. His Denizens were still searching madly. A breach was very dangerous indeed- but Tuesday's avarice could not outweigh his concern for his continued profit and production, could it? On the one hand there were his treasures, which he could easily replenish. On the other was his long-dug Pit, in danger of collapsing and wiping out any means of production he could use to profit further.

George looked up again. Tuesday was gone. Excellent; he took the sensible option. Now it was George's turn: get the Will, or help Tuesday? After all, three Keys were better than one, and a breach into the Void was no laughing matter.

He descended to his Noon. "Will, when they find your Second Part, I want you to go straight to it. Ignore everything else. Focus only on the Second Part. As quickly as possible."

"Yes, Lord George."

George interrupted the flow of indentured servants through the doors, seeking refuge- a few of them bowed- and dove down into the Pit, wings resplendent in the sooty darkness. All the way down. A few Nithlings appeared, formed by the flapping of his wings, but a cursory swipe of the First Key was enough to dispatch all of them.

"You!"

"Me. You're welcome."

Without further preamble, George fell into step beside the Trustee and pointed his Keys at the collapsing bulwark, plugging holes in the rotten structure. _Brick? Was that the strongest substance he could've used? Denizens, I swear!_

Five months back, when he was still mortal and the epidemic only just starting, George had read about a material called graphene in Popular Science. He still remembered it, at least vaguely. "You ever heard of graphene?" he shouted.

There was no response, but the holes being plugged in the bulwark were no longer brick. Tuesday stepped forward, and a shimmering material encased the bulwark, extending to the top of the breach. _He doesn't need my help anymore- maybe he never did_.

Before Tuesday realized that the Rightful Heir was within striking distance, George erupted back into the air, beating off Nithlings again.

* * *

><p>George returned to the top of the Pit, to Tuesday's Treasure Pyramid. "Where's Noon?"<p>

"Milady Noon is with the Mariner, obtaining the Second Part of the Will."

"Excellent. _All right, now, all of you Denizens __**listen up**_!" George's voice echoed as he manoeuvred himself away from the mouth of the Pit and closer to the Front Door. If Tuesday wanted to get at him so much, he'd have to get through a horde of annoyed ex-servants and Commissionaire Sergeants.

"Once this all boils over, I will release you from your indenture." Cheers.

"However, while those originally from the Lower House and the Border Sea will leave, the rest will stay to fill the Pit." Silence.

"There will be no coercion- miners are encouraged to work at their own pace. All Overseers are to hand over their steam guns." Softer cheers.

"Finally, I need the three highest in Precedence in the Far Reaches- native to this Demesne, mind. Anyone?" There was a short burst of conversation among the Denizens. George waited for it to die over, until he spotted a familiar figure at the entrance of the Pyramid. "You all just- hang on, okay?"

"Noon! Where's the Second Part?"

"I have merged with my Second Part."

"Good. Is this the Mariner?"

The grizzled old seafarer inclined his head. "Lord George."

"My pleasure to meet you, Mariner. After I obtain Lordship over the Far Reaches, would you be interested in relocating to the Border Sea, to start off your voyages?"

"Lord George-"

"Be quiet, Noon. After all his captivity, I think the Mariner deserves freedom- in exchange for, ah, certain favours."

"Favours?"

"I need you to be at my disposal to transport me into any other Demesne. For, err, covert operations, if you understand my meaning."

"I dislike blackmail, Lord George."

"Okay, okay! It's fine if you don't want-"

"I will allow you to call for me three times- three times only. Speak into this."

"Ew- oh. Thank you. Three times is all I need."

"Lord George-"

George turned. The Grim was emerging from within the Pyramid, but slower, now, staggering. Noon opened her mouth, George finished the rites, and the Second Key left Tuesday's hands, skittering across the floor to its new master. Then Tuesday hit the floor.

"What happened?"

"Saturday- treachery- her Time- stabbed- poisoned-"

"From Nothing, to Nothing. Return to the Void."

The remnants of Tuesday disappeared. The Mariner was looking at George with what looked like incredulous disgust. George ignored him and left the Pyramid to move back down into the Pit, as the alarms began to sound once again. The perpetrator was gone by the time George arrived, though. Bits of the old bulwark still showed through in places- evidently Tuesday had not enough time to fix it.

"Immaterial graphene," George whispered, pressing the Second Key to the crumbling bulwark. "Once and for all, block off the Void." There was a heavy weight on his brain- his eyes swam for a minute- but the bulwark held, and the alarms shut off. George took to the air, rose a few hundred metres, and pointed the Second Key down at the whole area in general, marshalling the power of the two other Keys with him to the task. "I want more Immaterial graphene, filling up every nook and cranny and crevice," George shouted. "First Key, protect me from all Nithlings. The rest- _do it._"

That was the last thing he saw before losing consciousness.

* * *

><p>George woke up one floor below his office in the Tower, his Noon sitting in a chair by his makeshift bed. "Milord, I have appointed Tuesday's Dawn, Noon and Dusk. They have taken over the day-to-day task of filling in the Pit."<p>

"Good. Go and do your work."

His Noon left without preamble. George stood up, winced, and sat down again. His body was one huge throbbing bruise. He waved a hand, and a mirror formed itself out of the wall. Superficially, he was fine- taller and better-looking, even, but looks weren't always the answer. There was a glint in his eye- no, not rhetorically, a _literal_ glint in his eye. George tried to stand up again, and found that he could.

He went upstairs and adjusted his name plate. _Lord George, Rightful Heir to the Architect, Master of the Lower House, Lord of the Far Reaches, Duke of the Border Sea._ Quite a mouthful, but he could get used to it.

George sat down, paused, and began to write on a piece of scrap paper. He would need to check his food and drink frequently to prevent acceptance of any poison or, especially, Thursday's shilling. He would need to consolidate his gains, and try to strike deep into the administration of what remained of the House.

Thursday was Saturday's devoted minion. Saturday- well, she was the ultimate evil, wasn't she? And Sunday- George could only so much as consider seizing the Seventh Key once he had the other six to fall back on. Which left Friday. And her Middle House.

He'd sent a book to Friday's Dawn. Contact would have to be re-established, and agents sent via the postage. Telephone lines were to be cut off regarding the Middle House, establishing effective radio silence. When he invaded, Noon would have to be with him, searching for the Fifth Part. Of course, he needed an insider- so:_ Contact to be re-established with Friday's Dawn…_

George paused, and penned down a few more words.


	8. Pure Crack

**This is crack, guys, pure wish-fulfilment. You can choose to enter it into your personal idea of the continuity of the story- though, judging from the number of reviews, not many people are looking- or just enjoy it as a story utilizing the characters and world which I've created in the past 7 chapters.**

**Have a beautiful day! (**_**This actually means: "Please R&R."**_**)**

* * *

><p>George put down his pen and sat back, a hand over his face. He didn't need glasses, but on days like these, days with paperwork as trying as these, he really felt as though it was almost mandatory. Working for one week straight did that to a person. "Now, what to do now?" he muttered under his breath.<p>

"_Interference is allowed, for you are the anointed Heir to the Kingdom, with the Architect's tacit approval_"

George opened his eyes, exhaustion forgotten. He took his long legs off the table (the increase in height was surprisingly difficult to adjust to along with all the newly functional limbs) and called his Keys to him.

"Noon, to me!"

"Milord George?"

"Tell me, Noon, if I, _hm_, intervene on my home-world- Earth- before my birth, is it possible to cancel out my existence?

"No, milord. You are too powerful for that. Even if, through interfering, your parents and your grandparents cease to exist, you will not. This is because you are no longer completely mortal, and thus no longer truly part of the Secondary Realms."

"Interesting. Very interesting."

"Are you planning something, milord?"

"…yes. A, _hm_, retreat for those of us in the liberated departments of the Firm, so to speak."

* * *

><p>On the 21st of December, 2012, scores of people- a negligible amount, but scores of people nonetheless- waited with bated breath for the world to end. Leonard Watkins was one of those people who did <em>not<em> consider the possibility of imminent apocalypse- he was too busy standing in the Tube, waiting for his train to arrive.

By the time he stepped out of his train station, there was a faint commotion at the end of the tunnel. People reached the end, looked up, and stopped. They moved when pushed, as far as Leonard could see, craning his short-sighted eyes to see as he all but dashed towards them, but what on Earth were they looking at?

Leonard poked his head out into the bright London sunlight, and saw _exactly_ what they were looking at.

There were people descending from god-knows-where, actual, honest-to-god _people_, descending, with _wings_, huge angel's wings. Leonard suddenly found that his throat was dry. His girlfriend would be crowing about this when she got home, a part of his brain noted dryly. A few people took out their phones, but stopped when their phones choked, then spurted a thin stream of sparks, then went dark. One of his fellow commuters began to chant, fervently, the _Our Father_. Leonard figured that it couldn't help to be a bit more religious, and joined in as the _angels_, whatever those things were, began to look around, tall and handsome and too perfect to exist.

* * *

><p>The President of the United States was there to greet him, George noted, with some amusement. He was standing by the foot of the Statue of Liberty, accompanied by men from the Secret Service, as well as bureaucrats and politicians of all stripes. The most powerful man on Earth, with the power to kill a billion with a word, and he was quaking in his boots as George smiled at him vacantly.<p>

Of course, George was _aware_ that he was smiling vacantly. It helped to cultivate an air of inhumanness. His Denizens didn't need that, of course- but at the bona fide leader, of the "aliens" (_or angels or demons or gods, according to Facebook_), it was necessary to maintain the illusion, or, at least, to fit in.

"Good morning," the President began, his voice clear and steady. "I am the President of the United States, and you are…?"

George smiled for a bit more as his armada of ships moored all over the world. With an audible snap of his fingers, all the newspaper cameras whipped towards him. There was a shriek somewhere in the crowd, and the sound of a body crumpling to the ground. To his credit, the President maintained- or tried to maintain- eye contact.

"You may call me Lord George, President," George finally said, pronouncing _President_ as though it was a foreign word. "And to make things clear, I am not here to negotiate. Such things are for mortals. Allow me to demonstrate."

He did not wait for the President's reaction, but instead raised his Third Key and took to the air simultaneously. The ocean churned and bubbled. George was not sure which agent had lost his cool and fired first, but in seconds his clothing, Kevlar-like in make though it was, was nothing but shreds, his flesh unscathed.

"That," George commented, smile wider than it should be, head cocked, inwardly coldly, calmly _furious_, "was unwise."

* * *

><p>Denizens were filling the streets of Paris, swarms of emotionless, freakishly tall, impossibly beautiful men and women striding through the streets, observing their first human city. (<em>It was a bit chaotic- but what the hell, it was a company retreat, anyway.<em>) For the first time, watching them on Earth proper, George felt the stirrings of awe. _He_ was in command of all these- these veritable demi-gods. He alone.

At first, in a fit of teenage pique (_yes, even after assuming power, he still had that- or perhaps it had even been __**enhanced**_), he had considered bringing all the celebrities, all the rich singers, actors and tycoons before him, and humbling them via all sorts of nasty means. But now- walking through the Louvre, regarding the now original artworks (_apparently they'd been copies, created by the Grim, for quite a while, perhaps even before the Louvre was built_), his Keys in his hands in a pose vaguely reminiscent of a religious painting, George realised this:

He didn't _need_ to.

His power was obvious, by now. There was no point in demonstrating it before mortals- that would have caused needless death. George was overtaken by a sudden gust of serenity, and also clarity- for in that moment he knew _exactly_ how Lord Sunday felt.

A small, niggling part of his mind wondered how far gone George was from the depressed survivor of the epidemic, his friends and family piles of ash, and George shut it up ruthlessly. For now, he was content to hover before the Eiffel Tower, arms stretched in bliss, his Keys emitting enough light to give him an almost divine aura (_he already looked divine, but no one had told him that yet_), every camera focussed on him, and enjoy being, for once, literally on top of the world.


	9. Thursday, 1

**My sincerest apologies for this. I needed to write urgently, and I'm afraid this, as well as, possibly, the past few chapters, came out a bit wrong, or, at least, not to my satisfaction. Do tell me where I should revise it.**

* * *

><p>George pressed his thumb to the paper with a flourish and sat back in his chair with a sigh as the document threw itself back down the chute. Five months of consolidating and further planning- two months of sending small amounts of Denizens back to their Demesnes with orders that were not to be revealed to anyone at all costs. Two months of weaponry shipments to Friday's Dawn, a continuous stockpiling as he finally prevailed over the Time. And then-<p>

Dawn was dismissed by Friday on one of the rare times she'd come down from her retreat, along with her other Times. Now, her Times were unswervingly loyal Denizens- most likely pushed forward by Saturday herself- and George had heard that they would defend the Middle House from him to the death. They remained in the Middle House, too- it took singularly strong-willed Denizens to resist the temptation of Friday's "experiencing". Very troubling. To make things worse, following recent developments, it was likely, too, that the Fifth Part of the Will was under even heavier guard.

His small amounts of Denizens, his sleeper agents, had been imprisoned and most likely interrogated. It was very likely that they'd cracked. Either someone was blabbing to the remaining Days, or the kid gloves were off. George was not sure which option he preferred more.

His Keys flew into his palms- or in the case of the Second, _on_to his palms- and George stood up with nary a struggle. It was surprising how easily he'd adjusted to having two more working limbs, really. A thought, and his lift dinged.

"Monday! Walk with me."

The former Master of the Lower House fell into step beside George. It was well-known that George would not allow any of his Denizens to show excessive subservience towards him, and so preferred them to look him in the eye and walk at his pace.

"Milord?"

"You happen to be the only living Trustee in my Demesnes at the moment, Monday. I trust you are aware of the circumstances in which Tuesday died?"

The Pit was twenty percent filled- a depressing number, to be sure, but it could be worse. Monday pondered the question as Denizens scooted out of George's way.

"Yes, I am."

"Tell me about the natures of the Trustees. I know what they want, and I know what they are doing. But has Saturday ever resorted to attempting to kill another Trustee?"

"Not to my knowledge, milord- but she has harboured her grudge against Lord Sunday for millennia. To have her careful efforts to destabilize the Drasil growth and her intricate power structure threatened in just two months by a mortal must have caused her to panic."

"What about Friday? Does she act on her initiative very often?"

"She used to, until the experiencing took up too much of her time. These days, she maintains a- cold war, I believe is your term, milord- with the other Days, complying with superior Saturday's orders but ignoring Sir Thursday. Lord Sunday has always sequestered himself from us, however."

"I see. Are you enjoying your new job?"

"Enjoying, Lord George?"

"Never mind. Have a pleasant day."

* * *

><p>"Noon."<p>

"Milord?"

George descended to the streets. His Noon tagged along beside him. They had made a U-turn and were proceeding back to his Tower.

"Tell me, if a Rightful Heir 'interferes' with the Secondary Realms, is it also a breach of the Original Law?"

"Not to my knowledge, Lord George. The Architect interfered, but only She had the right. As someone with Her tacit approval, wherever She is, you, too, may interfere. May I ask what you wish to interfere in?"

"I want weapons schematics."

* * *

><p>Later, with a sheaf of photocopied papers in his hand, George entered his office once more with a sigh and waved a hand over his coffee, recently conjured from the desk. As always, it turned up negative. Still, prevention always won out over cure.<p>

Tuesday's treasures had been returned to the Secondary Realms. That was good. George had been sorely tempted to keep a few of those, but if the Will itself thought he could interfere since he was the Rightful Heir, then…

_Mona Lisa_ couldn't hurt, he supposed.

"Lord George! Lord George!"

An Inspector tapped on his window, panting. George opened it. "Why didn't you hand it to Dawn, Inspector?"

"It's urgent, milord! They say," –here the Inspector paused to take a deep breath, "-they say that the Great Maze is under siege!"

George snatched the message from the Inspector and scanned it. _New Nithlings_, pah. But- led by the Piper? That was strange- the Piper had control over all Piper's Children, and also the Raised Rats. Such a powerful element in the House, taking over the Great Maze, was not favourable at all and would not be tolerated. _Especially_ if he knew such things as exactly what Tile 500/500 could do and had the resources to exploit this weakness.

Whether Thursday wanted it or not, George would, uh, _lend a hand_.

The number of segments in the Border Sea had been halved as the oceans decreased in volume and ships started to transform back into buildings. The Far Reaches, however, could spare no Denizen, and George had no intention of demanding anything of them since he had the Second Key. The Lower House went without saying.

"Noon!"

"Milord?"

"Scramble the troops!"

* * *

><p>"Milord!"<p>

"Lieutenant Keeper. I need you to transport these Denizens to the Great Maze. They are reinforcements in the battle against the Piper and his underlings."

"The Piper?"

"Long story. I forgot how little you know about what's going on in the House proper. Expect a newspaper subscription when all this is over."

George turned away from the Front Door and faced the Border Sea alongside his Noon and her Denizens. He fiddled in his pocket for a bit, finally locating a medallion and followed the instructions. The Mariner had better not be busy.

Fortunately, he wasn't. The old man appeared and bowed, though it was more like a nod. George suppressed the urge to snap at him- _Denizen or not, he __**was**__ the Rightful Heir_- and greeted him.

"Captain!"

"Lord George."

"I need you to transport us to the Great Maze. There's a battle going on there, and I intend to help in whatever way I can."

"Where to?"

"Tile 500/500."

* * *

><p>It wasn't Tile 500500 exactly, but it was close. George was not aware of whether the Mariner had remained or not, seeing as the old man was blocked off by the hundreds of New Nithlings that pressed upon them the minute they appeared. The Commissionaire Sergeants bore up well. Noon bore up better. As for George-

It took one swipe of the Key and they were all beaten back. "Hold them off," he called, and riffled through his pockets again. When he'd found what he needed, he lowered the shield.

"From Nothing, to Nothing!"

Everything within two tiles of him disintegrated, save his own entourage. Who said the Keys followed every spoken instruction to the letter? They were _interactive_, was what they were. One of the destroyed tiles was a Nothing spike, now a humongous pool of bubbling primordial gloop. "Join the front lines," George shouted. "I'll cut them down to size before they hit the Army. And, Noon- if you find the Fourth Part of the Will, keep close to it."

And cut them down he did. He cleared a swathe of winged New Nithlings out of the air to let them pass, and then George turned towards the hordes still approaching, and cracked his knuckles with a grin.

And then there was the music.

Haunting, enchanting- George felt it worm its way into his skull, whispering all the while, _Give me the Keys, give me the Keys…_

_**Stop!**_

The voice of sheer will that was Noon echoed through George's skull, even from afar. Instinctively, he raised his hands, and the Keys with them. It took half a second for him to get his bearings and recall what had happened, and another half-second to mobilize and marshal his will.

"Keep the Nothing as it is, and give me tanks."

The remnants of Nothing, lying spattered on the tiles, began to quiver. George's Second Key glowed, and as he flexed his fingers, sending gobbets of Nothing back at the approaching New Nithlings, burnished metal monstrosities formed from the horrid oil spills of primordial stuff. In each and every one of them, George's altered mind, changed as it was by use of the Keys, manipulated the levers and pushed the buttons, loaded the cannons and ordered direction.

"Fire-"

And his tanks fired, over and over again. Rubber treads rolled over pools of Nothing, assimilating them into the structure of the tanks, providing an eternal supply of ammunition. George's brows furrowed in concentration, his hands moving like a conductor's as the lines of tanks moved ever-more forward.


End file.
